


Moonshine

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-12 09:23:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10487517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: There’s something almost dangerous about him—not malevolent exactly; he doesn’t seem to wish Shuuzou any harm but then again he’s so mesmerizing it’s possible he’s pulled out a knife and stuck Shuuzou in the back with it already.





	

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: '1920s gangster au' (thank u eliska!)
> 
> for nijihimu day 2k17!

It’s so easy for Shuuzou to get lost in the winding streets of the city and end up in the direction opposite to where he’d been intending to go, the wrong street of the wrong neighborhood with little hope of getting back in the time he’s allocated for himself. The worst part is there’s no signifier, no clear-cut borderline that tells him when he’s in the wrong place, out of neutral territory and in a neighborhood where the local gang isn’t likely to take a liking to someone like him, the obvious strength in his gait and the scowl on his face. The streets and alleys get a little narrower; the lettering on the signs gets less and less familiar but it could still be right until it’s not and Shuuzou’s danger sensors are kicking in.

He pulls his cap low on his face and shoves his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t mean any harm, even if he could do it if he’d wanted. He’s just trying to find a toy shop that’s a little less expensive, where he can buy stuff for the kids and have a little bit of pocket money left at the end for himself—and as true as it is, there’s no way anyone here’s going to buy that. Shuuzou can feel their eyes, gazes bouncing off fire escapes and awnings and fruit carts, indirectly targeting him. There’s a police officer at the corner; Shuuzou tries to stay within his line of vision (he could be paid off or crooked, too, but it’s better than nothing to go on).

“Hello.”

Shuuzou blinks. As if having come from nowhere, there’s a man in a dark suit right beside him. The man’s hair is combed over one eye and his lips are twisted into a slight smile and it takes a couple of seconds for it to sink in but he’s possibly one of the most beautiful people Shuuzou’s ever seen. His visible eye is perfectly-shaped, framed by long lashes; there’s a beauty mark right under it. His cheek is pale but well-filled-out, and the slope of his nose is straight. There’s something almost dangerous about him—not malevolent exactly; he doesn’t seem to wish Shuuzou any harm but then again he’s so mesmerizing it’s possible he’s pulled out a knife and stuck Shuuzou in the back with it already.

“Hello,” says Shuuzou, the word wobbling on his tongue.

“Are you lost?”

Shuuzou coughs. “Ah…a little bit.”

“Well then,” says the man, nudging his elbow. “Let’s get you back to where you should be, hm?”

Shuuzou turns around; the man follows him, as if pushing him to turn the right corners, back past the tenements and the boarded-up store fronts and doors to maybe-nowhere. Soon enough, they reach the familiar edges of the neighborhood where Shuuzou lives (he hasn’t lived there quite long enough for it to really be his), wider streets and smoother cobblestones. He turns back, but the man is gone, vanished into the smoky darkness like a mirage.

* * *

Shuuzou feels like he should go back, like he wants to go back, to find that man, thank him, find out his name, something (to spill out all of his thoughts about how beautiful he finds him, to ask him if he wants—something, not that Shuuzou has much to give). It’s a bad idea, though; Shuuzou’s not stupid. He’s not going to wander into a place like that again and count on luck bailing him out. There are only so many kind strangers, and he’s not likely to find that one again, least not if he’s trying to seek him out (then again, it’s not like the guy’s some sort of mythical creature who only appears to those who have the purest intentions of getting the fuck out of a bad neighborhood—at least probably not).

Still, Shuuzou finds himself wandering closer, to the same edge of his neighborhood, hoping to catch the man in transit. He’s got no more than a location to go on, a distinctive face and hairstyle but no one to ask about it really (the few people he has look at him like he’s crazy and tell him to stop asking so many questions). Even when he’s stopped really hoping, it’s in the back of his mind, the off-chance that maybe they’ll see each other again.

Shuuzou thinks about it in passing when he hears about a speakeasy in that part of town. Word has it that it’s run by the head of the local gang, but he keeps things in order inside and treats it like neutral territory (right outside the bar, you’re on your own, but that’s the chance you take and most people don’t come there with a mind to fight). It might be a good option, even disregarding the mysterious stranger (though, if he’d been so inclined to help Shuuzou, regardless of his own affiliation, he might patronize this place in support of its owner’s sentiments, though Shuuzou tries his best to put that faint hope out of his mind).

He goes the next weekend. The walk’s easier now that he knows more of the city, even if it’s not this part in particular; he knows how to walk the right way and project the right air that gets people around here to look away from him and see him as utterly unremarkable; he finds the unmarked door with ease and slips inside, giving the passphrase and ducking into the room.

It’s unremarkable at first, filled with cigarette smoke and people speaking in low tones, looking around as if trying to hold their verbal cards pressed up against their chests. The bar is back in one of the darker corners, sunk into shadow by fewer lights and lower ceilings. Shuuzou makes his way over and nods to the bartender and waits for him to finish serving something clear in a tall glass to a woman at the other end, the only other person sitting there. She raises her eyebrow at Shuuzou and then decides the drink’s more interesting and turns to look at it.

“I’ll have a sidecar,” Shuuzou says.

The bartender nods and begins to fuss with the ingredients; Shuuzou watches, still keeping an eye out for any movements in the periphery (supposedly-neutral or no, he can’t be too careful). He senses something before he sees it, deliberate movement off to the side; he turns and there’s the man from the other day sliding onto the stool next to him. Shuuzou’s mouth goes dry; he’s every bit as beautiful as he is in Shuuzou’s memory.

“Fancy seeing you here,” says the man, his lips quirking into a not-unkind smile.

“Uh,” says Shuuzou (all the words coming to his lips are about how he’d never thought he’d see this man again, how gorgeous he looks, all the wrong things to say upfront like this). “Yeah. I was kind of, um. Hoping.”

The man smiles a little wider, and it feels more directed at Shuuzou and that feels good (yet it’s still impossible to really tell what he’s thinking). “I’m Tatsuya.”

He sticks out his hand and Shuuzou takes it; it’s cool and dry and his grip is firm.

“Shuuzou.”

The bartender places drinks in front of both of them (Shuuzou can’t remember Tatsuya ordering; is this his usual then?) and Shuuzou takes a sip of his; it goes down a lot easier than he’d been expecting.

“You come here often?” Shuuzou says.

“You might say that,” says Tatsuya.

“Oh,” says Shuuzou.

He’s not sure what to say next, but his nothing is interrupted by a kid (maybe sixteen?) sidling up to Tatsuya.

“Boss, we got the new shipment. It’s, uh.”

His eyes dart toward Shuuzou.

“Don’t worry,” says Tatsuya. “He’s okay.”

“It’s in the back,” says the kid.

Tatsuya flips him a quarter, and Shuuzou would be caught up in the ease of his gesture but he’s too busy focusing on what the kid had said about shipments, about calling Tatsuya his boss.

“Wait,” says Shuuzou. “You’re.”

“Yes,” says Tatsuya. “I am.”

“You’re,” says Shuuzou again. “The head of the Snowsquall Gang.”

“Yes,” says Tatsuya.

He’s looking at Shuuzou as if he’s trying to decide something, like Shuuzou had maybe fucked up somewhere or he’s acting too much like a rat or a double agent or whatever the fuck a gang leader’s worst enemy is.

“Am I the only one here who didn’t know?” says Shuuzou, finally.

“Probably,” says Tatsuya, smile softening like something about the sentence had tipped his mind in the positive direction.

“Oh,” says Shuuzou.

They sit in silence for a few minutes with their drinks; it’s not awkward, though. Shuuzou keeps sneaking glances at Tatsuya, most (all?) of which Tatsuya definitely notices, but his face remains as placid as a sheet of metal.

“Why’d you help me? Before?” says Shuuzou.

“Well,” says Tatsuya. “You seemed like an honest person in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The answer doesn’t seem to ring false, but it’s not satisfying either.

“And I thought you were kind of cute,” says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou squints at him; he can’t tell if it’s just Tatsuya making fun of his own (probably very obvious) attraction or just honesty.

“What about now?” says Shuuzou.

“I think you’re very cute,” says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou’s voice isn’t working properly and his tongue’s a little numb from the alcohol but apparently he doesn’t need to speak; Tatsuya leans over and ever-so-briefly touches his lips to Shuuzou’s, not even long enough for Shuuzou to feel any pressure. Shuuzou can still use his hands, though; he places one on Tatsuya’s knee under the bar; a few seconds later Tatsuya covers it with his own, smaller and surprisingly firm and calloused. Tatsuya raises his glass and Shuuzou raises his own in response; there’s no verbal toast, but Shuuzou can guess at the sentiment.


End file.
